onsdag 30 september 2015

It looked as if Team Chicago had everything going for them and they should just wrap it up in the final round. Their chests were filled and ready for some "star-spangling" singing, but they had forgotten the importance of collar bones. Specially those connected with a girl named Sue.Collar bones, by Sue Sinclair

Why do they make us thinkof birds, the spreading of wings?Only the mind is more in lovewith flight. Desirerises, hinges at the throat:here is where we glimpseone another, in the aerodynamicsof bones that skim the neckline, glidefrom shoulder to shoulder, two halvesof a single bone healedseparately. Through usthey wish for a lostamplitude, hint at a symmetrythat might have been.*** Again the jury surprised me. My absolute favourite poem among the twenty-eight finalists was Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin's tribute to Agnes Bernelle. The kinship in the form of a spider was fantastic. But I chose to have an impartial jury for the final and Sue Sinclair became their rated choice. This is Annika Meijer's justification: The poem is straightforward in its contexture. It's about human beings and the absence of what we could have had. The text is a skillful balance between the metaphorical, the poetic and the mundane physical. The judges decision in fourth round gave us a photo-finish between Team Chicago and Team Canada. Both teams achieved a total of 22 points. But when we count the individual scores of each poet we find that Team Canada got 67 points compared to 62 for Team Chicago. Therefore we congratulate Mark Abley, David Manicom and Sue Sinclair and remembers Diana Brebner who passed away fourteen years ago. They were, at least in my expectations, not among the favourites. But I'm happy that i own "The new canon - An anthology of Canadian Poetry. It is a great book.*** I really appreciated the work of the jury. Without them it would only have been my subjective guidelines, not exciting at all. My thanks go to:Karolina Jeppson- she is a freelance journalist and anthropologist whose special expertise is in the culture of West Africa and the Middle East.Agnes Gerner- she grew up in Stockholm and has studied literature at Uppsala University, where she wrote both bachelor's and master's theses on the British poet Ted Hughes and his interest in the animal world and ecology. She is a trained librarian working at the Royal Library. And she made her poetry debut last year with the collection "Skall" ('Bark').Annika Meijer- she is a book editor, translator and copywriter. She was responsible for the Swedish release of Ally Condie's Matched trilogy (2010–2012), a science fiction dystopia. She was not only editing, she actually translated the verses from Emily Dickinson that appear in the books.Jan Karlsson- cultural journalist who writes for several newspapers in Southern Sweden.Johan Alfredsson- works as a lecturer in comparative literature at the University of Gothenburg. His main research interests revolve around contemporary poetry, children's literature issues and literature didactics.Final standings of PSTC 2015

måndag 28 september 2015

A couple of the judges looked upon the third heat and said it's the best in the competition. I'm not sharing their point of view. I'm also much surprised with the jury's choice of winner, even though it was a close call. They rated Edward Hirsch poem "Cotton Candy" as number 1. I would probably have put him in fourth place. My favourite was Nomad heart, by Paula Meehan. Edward's win gives Team Chicago a big lead before the last stretch.Cotton Candy, by Edward HirschWe walked on the bridge over the Chicago Riverfor what turned out to be the last time,and I ate cotton candy, that sugary air,that sweet blue light spun out of nothingness.It was just a moment, really, nothing more,but I remember marveling at the sturdy cablesof the bridge that held us upand threading my fingers through the longand slender fingers of my grandfather,an old man from the Old Worldwho long ago disappeared into the nether regions.And I remember that eight-year-old boywho had tasted the sweetness of air,which still clings to my mouthand disappears when I breathe.

***

Johan Alfredsson, member of the jury, shared these thoughts with me.

"I believe this group of poems were the best in competition, and I specially liked "Cotton Candy". The author has chosen a delicate motif, the memory of a past childhood. And he succeeds in keeping the balance without ending up in clichés. By using the cotton candy as the main image in the poem he reflects gently over the transience of life."

Eight tentacles, by Julia Donaldson (f. 1948)(From Crazy Mayonnaisy Mum. Macmillan, 2004.)If only I had an octopus I'd soon get my housework done. I'd set him to work on the hoovering With tentacle numer one. Tentacle two would grab a mop And start on the kitchen floor While he dusted and polished the furniture With tentacles three and four. Tentacle five would turn on the tap And tackle the washing up While tentacle six took a well-earned break And curled round a china cup. Tentacle seven would make the beds And set all the pillows straight, And all the time he'd be balancing On tentacle number eight.

The republic of poetry, by Martin Espada (f. 1957)(from The republic of poetry. New York ; London : W.W. Norton & Company, 2006.)for ChileIn the republic of poetry,a train full of poetsrolls south in the rainas plum trees rockand horses kick the air,and village bandsparade down the aislewith trumpets, with bowler hats,followed by the presidentof the republic,shaking every hand.

In the republic of poetry,monks print verses about the nighton boxes of monastery chocolate,kitchens in restaurantsuse odes for recipesfrom eel to artichoke,and poets eat for free.

In the republic of poetry,poets read to the baboonsat the zoo, and all the primates,poets and baboons alike, scream for joy.

In the republic of poetry,poets rent a helicopterto bombard the national palacewith poems on bookmarks,and everyone in the courtyardrushes to grab a poemfluttering from the sky,blinded by weeping.

No angel shoved you into the crowd;you ran because the blood racing to your heartwarned a prison grave would swallow you.No oracle spread a banquet of vindication before youin visions; you mailed your banned poemscloaked as letters to your sister-in-lawbecause the silence of the worldwas a storm flooding your ears.

South Africa knows. Never tell a poet: Don't say that.Even as the guards watched you nodding in your cell,even as you fingered the stitches fresh from the bullet,the words throbbed inside your skull:Sirens knuckles boots. Sirens knuckles boots.Sirens knuckles boots.*** Hans puertoricanska rötter ges utrymme i den avslutande dikten, och den är tillägnad hans fru. Den handlar om ett välkänt turistmål, grottorna i Camuy. Så här avslutas dikten:The caves of Camuy (the ending stanza), by Martin Espada(from The republic of poetry. New York ; London : W.W. Norton & Company, 2006.)...Gather good brushes and good paper,and the creatures in the caves will stir:singers in the circle of the first maracas,conquerors and geologists flinging their helmets,crabs, bats, trilobites, parakeets, poets with white hair spilling,your sons and daughters pouring from the mouth of the world.

fredag 25 september 2015

In second heat of the final the judges were a little bit more divided. A couple of them had Mark Abley's "The almost island" as their primary choice. That one was my favourite as well. But most points went to Teresa Scollon, Team Chicago, for her piece "Family music". This time ended Team Iraq in the bottom. So new leader is Team Chicago with 11 teampoints.Family music, by Teresa Scollon

Banging on holidays like a piano tuner -this tone, tone, tone, then the octave, thenthe triad, then another note – we workaround the calendar of keys, musclingswollen pegs and frayed wires into tune.We forget how all this internal weather,this spitting turbulence, warps the fine grainof wood, how wood is a living material,breathing and absorbing even after it’s cutand fashioned into a living room shape.If we chopped it up and lit a fire, we’d hearwater hiss and wail as it heats and escapeseach cellulose room – each ring another yearof growing in concentric direction – all of itfinally released. That would be music.

Quote from Annika Meijer (jury member) about "Family music":Very comfortable rhythm in harmony with the language and theme, which combined with interesting pictures and parallels it gives a poem which I wish I had heard read by the author herself.***Standings

Team

Score Heat 2

Total Score

Chicago

8

11

Latvia

4

10

Canada

5

10

Iraq

1

9

Poland

6

7

Ireland

3

7

China Blue

2

4

***

Poems in Heat 3

[I called it life, but there was no life] / written by Dariusz Suska, Team Poland

I called it life, but there was no life.

In the fading sunlight hurriedly paying for gas,

I saw: it was not me. Something was living instead of me.

Organic metal rods rose from lush artificial grass.

A hedge of flowering forsythia did its best

To shield the gas station’s damaged flesh.

And this was life? Dark yellow blooms,

Soaked in light, compressed in the windshields

Of moving cars?

**

Reading Anglo-Saxon when spring comes early / written by David Manicom, Team Canada

Aquiver after the downward plunge, firelit silver -

A dagger in a table top, rude trestle, mead -

The feasters sheered into vision from their venison

And victory songs by the sight of one slight sparrow

Passing from snowing darkness through their narrow hall

And into the night again. A life.

One winter evening, pinioned on the bus from work,

I wrote: So arrival of each hoped-for future

Means a hoped-for future lost -

Closing the phrase behind me as an awkward wing,

The lurching muteness, the bus like the apostrophe

Before possession, that still walk home.

**

Cotton Candy / written by Edward Hirsch, Team Chicago

We walked on the bridge over the Chicago River

for what turned out to be the last time,

and I ate cotton candy, that sugary air,

that sweet blue light spun out of nothingness.

It was just a moment, really, nothing more,

but I remember marveling at the sturdy cables

of the bridge that held us up

and threading my fingers through the long

and slender fingers of my grandfather,

an old man from the Old World

who long ago disappeared into the nether regions.

And I remember that eight-year-old boy

who had tasted the sweetness of air,

which still clings to my mouth

and disappears when I breathe.

**

A world of lightning / written by Mahmoud al-Braikan, Team Iraq

A blue world,

bursting out of black nothingness,

radiating into the abyss of night

A curving horizon,

flash of sword sharpened by cold flame

A lone tree,

long branches

drooping into stretches of emptiness

A minaret,

dome defined by glow

Roads erupting

like beams into the heights of heaven

Clouds burning as they collide,

sky cutting sky

**

Nomad heart / written by Paula Meehan, Team Ireland

Sometimes looking to the cold wintry stars

you can feel the planet move as it whirls

in the flux of the galaxy, the whole

path of the milky way buzzing like a hive.

They say it’s better to journey than arrive -

halting being the usual rigmarole

of move-along-shift. Sometimes the soul

just craves a place to rest, safe from earthly wars.

The city lights come on in twos and threes

and leaves are freezing hard in mucky pools,

cars are stuck in jams or droning home.

If we’re not brought to our knees, we’ll fall to our knees

in thanks, in praise, in trust, in hope – the rule

of law mapped clear on heaven’s ample dome.

**

[I am given ten cubic meters of darkness] / written by Peters Bruveris, Team Latvia

I am given ten cubic meters of darkness

every night I pace over them obediently

until the Sun presses its golden electroset to the panes

and the garden is covered by compassionate mist

the floor long since worn out boards bleached white

like the bones of saints submissively rest side by side

disintegrating in corners are unworn violet wings

above which the carousel of moths is silent

**

Carrying my son piggyback in the mountains / written by Song Lin, Team China Blue